


For the Life of the Flesh is in the Blood

by zubeneschamali



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, M/M, mild bloodplay, smpc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zubeneschamali/pseuds/zubeneschamali
Summary: It's not something Sam and Dean do very often. But it's something they sometimes both need.





	For the Life of the Flesh is in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I got a new kink bingo card to push myself to write more. Some of the squares aren't things I would normally write, but that's part of the point, right? This is for both quickreaver and dephigravity, who asked for this square, and for all of the lovely people at SMPC. Many thanks to dugindeep for late-night beta reading. Title is from Leviticus.

It's not something they do very often. Certainly not right after a hunt goes bad, for obvious reasons. It's not something they _talk_ about. Or even ask about, for that matter. And yet, somehow, they both know when the time is right.

Like tonight. 

They've been driving somewhat aimlessly for four days, resting and healing up from an encounter with a chupacabra that was not nearly as much fun as Dean had thought it would be. Sam only needed a couple stitches on his calf and Dean passed the concussion tests, so it hadn't been that bad, all things considered. 

Of course, there had been the ten-year-old boy who'd seen his big brother vanish into thin air. Dean had insisted on being the one to tell the kid he wasn't coming back. To the extent that Sam had found any kind of pattern to this thing they did, cases involving kids and especially brothers were often a part of it. Their recent encounter with the strange virus that left Sam untouched had definitely been part of it, as hesitant as he'd been at the time. Not that he tried too hard to think about it, but sometimes it was hard to turn off his brain.

The last three nights, they'd gotten a room with a single king: once to fool around, once because that was all that was left, and once because Dean was in a bad mood and wanted to piss off the smarmy desk clerk who'd eyed them suspiciously as soon as they asked for one room. But tonight, Dean asks for two queens, and Sam's heart does a little sideways beat at that.

Dinner is burgers and beer in a shady-looking bar. Dean casts a glance at the pool table once or twice, but not with intent. That cements it in Sam's mind, and he finishes his beer as quickly as he can without looking like he's gulping it down.

Back in the room, they go through the rituals of cleaning their guns and brushing their teeth. When Sam comes out of the bathroom, he sees Dean on the far bed, remote in hand and legs crossed at the ankle like he's just watching TV.

Except for what's on the nightstand between the two beds.

Sam comes forward, shrugging off his flannel shirt onto the other bed, heart beating a little faster. "Find anything good?" he asks, gesturing towards the television.

"Nah," Dean casually says. He flicks the TV off and drops the remote onto the far nightstand. 

Sam knows full well there's a Die Hard marathon on tonight; Dean had seen it in the TV Guide two days ago and crowed about it. "That's too bad," he says, pulling his t-shirt over his head and dropping it on top of his flannel.

"Too bad," Dean echoes absently, eyes already tracing down Sam's chest. He raises his eyebrows. "You gonna do a striptease for me, Sammy?"

Sam smirks. "Your turn," he says, gesturing at Dean.

Dean rolls his eyes, but there's no hesitation in how he reaches for the hem of his henley and draws it up over his head. As he pulls it off, Sam can see that the bruise on his shoulder has faded to a dirty yellow. It'll probably still be sensitive, though that's kind of the point, isn't it?

Dean goes for his jeans next, and Sam is happy to stand by and watch. He's a little amused at how Dean just kicks himself free of the pant legs and leaves them crumpled at the foot of the bed. 

Sam shimmies out of his own jeans, enjoying Dean's hungry look when he sees there's nothing on under them. He comes forward and kneels at the edge of the bed, looming over Dean, who's straining against his boxers already, maybe trying to match the half-hard look that Sam's got going. Or maybe he's been thinking about this all day, having decided early on that this was how tonight was going to go.

Sam decides Dean's boxers can stay on for now. He straddles Dean's thighs, still up on his knees. "Ready?" he asks softly.

It's the closest they ever get to setting the scene for what they're about to do, and Dean predictably doesn't respond with words. Instead, he smirks as he reaches out to grab Sam's dick and yank him downwards.

Sam's yelp is swallowed by Dean's mouth even as his hands plant on the bed on either side of Dean's head. Dean lets go of him almost right away, instead sliding his hands up Sam's sides and slowing things down. For a while, it's just their mouths moving against each other, Dean's hand still against Sam's ribs and the quiet sounds of their breaths and lips filling the room. 

Sam shifts his hips down so their groins are nearly touching. It's self-torture to have his now-hard cock barely brushing along Dean's abs rather than grinding down against him like he wants to. But they're not to that point yet, even though they're definitely getting there.

There's something else to be done first.

He shifts his weight so he's leaning on his left hand, still kissing Dean. He reaches out with his right to the nightstand without looking, fingers closing around the familiar object and bringing it back. Dean is squirming beneath him, hips shifting like he wants to buck upwards while holding back, head moving as his tongue slips and slides around Sam's.

When Sam puts the cold curve of the blade to Dean's chest, Dean goes perfectly still. 

Sam draws back and opens his eyes, seeing Dean staring up at him. His eyes are wide but calm, breathing coming a little faster than before. Sam regards him for a moment longer, reading the tiny movements of his face and the quick cadence of his breath as the answer to the question Sam doesn't need to ask out loud.

He deliberately presses down on the blade.

It's a curved weapon, wickedly sharp at each point, not to mention along the length of the blade. Sam packed it when he left Palo Alto, but he hasn't used it on a hunt since. Maybe that's why they use it for this purpose. 

Sam's fingers are curled tightly around the hilt, his own breathing steady as he lightly presses down. A thin line of red forms along the edge of Dean's right pectoral. The skin has just barely been parted—Sam keeps his weapons sharp—before he rolls the knife to complete a half-circle. Dean's head is propped up on pillows, and as they both watch, a thin trickle starts down over Dean's sternum.

Sam reaches out with one finger to touch, smearing the blood over Dean's breastbone. It's not much—they both know they can't do anything that might weaken them before their next hunt. But that's not the point anyway. _Quality, not quantity_ , Sam can hear one of his Stanford professors say, and he smiles to himself.

Then he lifts the blade and offers the handle to Dean.

Dean accepts it, fingers curling against Sam's for a moment. He twists the blade back and forth for a moment, letting the light catch on its length.

When he holds it up, the sharp hook of the end points in Sam's direction. Sam leans forward slightly, chest out, offering himself to Dean.

The blade is so sharp he barely feels it, but the light touch of blood running down his chest is a distinctive tickle. Dean's tracing along the edge of his left pectoral, not in one move like Sam made, but a slow, steady line with the very tip of the knife.

_Show-off_ , Sam thinks. Just as if he'd spoken out loud, Dean briefly smirks up at him before returning his concentration to his work.

When Dean lays the blade aside, there's blood down to the cut of Sam's hip. It's no deeper than he cut Dean, it's just that he's upright whereas Dean's on his back. Dean's hands close over Sam's ribs again, thumb smearing the blood on his left side and Sam sighs, feeling the warmth of Dean's touch before leaning forward to kiss him again.

The kiss is deeper now, hungrier. Sam lets Dean pull him down until their chests are touching, the cuts they've just created not quite lining up. He can feel their bodies slipping against each other with the little bit of blood between them, and he gives a slow thrust of his hips.

Dean bucks up in response, and Sam helps him shove his boxers off his legs. They line up together, Dean's cock in the groove of Sam's hip, his own rubbing up against Dean's abs. When Sam lowers himself back down, there's sweat mixing between them along with their blood, and the sharp sting is a reminder of the open cuts they've just inflicted. 

He sees the heat in Dean's eyes at the sensations they're both feeling. They're moving together in unison now, one of Dean's legs hooked up and over Sam's knee to give him some leverage. Sam's not in a hurry, thrusting slowly against Dean, letting himself enjoy the sensations of mouths and hands and chests moving against each other.

Their skin sticks a little now, their sweat and blood mixing, streaking on heated skin and ever-so-slightly drying. The rough pull of skin is a reminder of what they just shared between them, what they're sharing right now, and Sam exaggerates his rocking back and forth to amplify it. Dean's got one hand on Sam's ass now, holding him close, but the other is trailing up his side, thumb wriggling in to press at the edge of Sam's pec.

He feels the slide of their skin get looser—not with sweat, but with a trace of blood that Dean has wrung out of him. He attacks Dean's mouth at that, tongue plunging in and teeth clashing, one hand gripping Dean's hair to hold him in place even as he starts thrusting harder.

Dean, of course, meets him thrust for thrust, hips moving in tight circles as he seeks his release against Sam. The bed is creaking beneath them; just enough to be heard, yet not loud enough to bother the neighbors, not that they'd really care. Worse comes to worse, they'll make a note not to come back to this motel the next time they're passing through Louisiana. 

Dean's breathing comes faster, his sharp inhales meaning he's getting close. Sam bears down, pressing hard against Dean's chest, wanting him to feel how close they are, how even their blood is mingling together. 

That thought is what sends him over the edge, eyes screwed shut and hips snapping forward. Dean's not far behind, nails digging into Sam's ass as he shouts in Sam's ear. Another kind of warmth spreads between their bodies, lower now, and Sam gives another slow thrust to wring out the last of his orgasm. Eyes still closed, he starts to flop onto his back. 

"No, wait!" Dean's arm is still tight around him. "Hold on." He reaches out and takes the blade from where he'd dropped it on the bed, reaching out as far as he can to deposit it on the nightstand.

"Gotta be more careful with that," Sam says. He rolls onto Dean's other side, just in case. 

"My fault," Dean says. "Still getting used to this whole thing, you know."

Sam puts his hand on Dean's chest, fingers spread wide. The blood has already dried, smeared across his skin. He idly traces the thin line his blade left on Dean's chest. It won't even need a Band-Aid, just as Sam planned it. He takes a deep breath. "It's good, though," he says quietly. "Not, like, something we should do all the time. But sometimes, it just…I don't know. It's good."

There's silence for a moment. Then Dean pats his hand. "Eloquent, college boy."

"Shut up." Sam flicks his ribs and grins when Dean squirms in annoyance. He doesn't really need to talk about it, just wants to let Dean know that he's okay with it.

_Like that orgasm you just had wasn't a big clue_ , he says to himself before going still against Dean's side. They should clean up, get the sweat and blood and other fluids off their skin before they dry completely. Maybe get to the other bed with its nice clean sheets.

Sam closes his eyes. Or maybe he'll just rest here for a moment, hand over his brother's heart, feeling the signs of his life pulsing beneath Sam's fingers and drying sticky on their skin.


End file.
